


Words Like Girl

by vega_voices



Series: Come Rain, Come Shine [12]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love, The Committee to Protect Journalists, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 04:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15900993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices





	Words Like Girl

**Title:** Words Like Girl  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Series:** Come Rain, Come Shine  
**Pairing:** Murphy/Peter UST  
****Rating:**** It’s Peter and Murphy, so it’s for mature audiences. But really, there isn’t that much going on.  
**Timeframe:** post _Political Correctness_ (season 6)  
**A/N:** This takes place just after the episode, and deals with some of the ideas about the building of Murphy and Peter’s attraction to each other. The title comes directly from the episode, and for some reason, just seems to fit with them. If you get the chance, really sit back and watch their interactions in Political Correctness. Murphy and Peter are cut from the same cloth, and while they are often staggeringly unaware of their privilege, I think they are also at the same time, hyper aware of how they move through the world.  
**A/N (2):** Please check out the work being done by [The Committee to Protect Journalists](http://www.cpj.org).  
**Disclaimer:** As always, these characters belong to Diane English. I don’t make a penny off of this, but the joy I I get from writing these stories is absolutely immeasurable.

**Summary:** _Peter expected Murphy to do what she always did when she was overruled - to storm off into her office until she came up with a perfect revenge. Instead, she just stood there._

Murphy tried not to notice how his hand was only inches from hers in the limo. Her head rested against the glass and most of her mind was on Avery and spending the morning with him, but there was a small part of her that couldn’t take her eyes off of where Peter’s hand was resting. He and Miles were talking, Peter was extolling some harrowing adventure that Murphy knew was only half true, so she was only half listening. She’d been like Peter back when most of her time was based in the field. Everyone always thought it was so exciting to sleep in mud, fight for bunk space, hide from mercenaries who wanted to kill you. So it was more fun to embellish. It made the memories easier to manage. No one understood the gallows humor that came about when you spent your life reporting on the death of children, often at the hands of the government you so gratefully cheered on because of the rights granted under the constitution, so instead, they as reporters became the joke. It was a skill Frank had never really managed in full. His heart always took over, battling with his ego’s need to explain exactly what had happened. But Peter was a master storyteller - calm and funny, selfaffacing. He deserved those awards and nominations on his resume, especially the Peabody for the article about the Bush failures in Iraq and the terrifying prediction that it wasn’t over yet.

It was silly, this school girl crush she had on him. If she could even classify it that way. She didn’t like classifying it that way. It meant she had to admit that she spent any time at all thinking about him. She didn’t like admitting that since she’d found him in her office six weeks ago, she’d kept looking for ways to bring him back. Stealing things from his Rolodex, setting up the piano teacher, comparing hate mail notes. She argued with him in story meetings just to argue. She hated admitting that she felt a rush between her legs every time his eyes met hers, that the chat they’d had in the studio after she punched him had revealed more about her insecurities than she liked, and it was somehow even more frightening that his worries matched hers.

He kept hours like she did, and more than once they’d found themselves at the desks in the bullpen, working silently on copy. The other day, they’d spent an hour in the tape library, randomly together, looking for background on completely different stories, helping each other out. He’d leaned in close to help her get a tape from the shelf and she’d been overwhelmed with the smell of Old Spice. She hadn’t missed the flash in his eyes when she’d handed him a tape he was looking for and their hands had touched. She also hadn’t missed just how good his ass looked in a pair of jeans.

This was stupid.

She wasn’t moving her hand away, though. Neither was he. Corky was leaning in to him, giggling like the beauty queen she didn’t need to remind everyone she was, and Murphy just closed her eyes. This was stupid. She was being stupid. She knew better than to let anything like this linger. It wasn’t even about Corky. It was about this guy, the guy the network liked, gaining more access. It was about change - something she just wasn’t good at. It was about pretending she wasn’t so dreadfully lonely when dreams full of memory woke her at 4 AM and she wandered down to the couch to fall asleep in front of the fire.

She was willing to accept singleness as a factor of her life. She was a mom who worked sixty hours a week - and that was with cutting back. She didn’t have time to shower half the time, let alone even tempt the potential for anyone in her life. She’d learned that lesson with Mitchell, actually. Three weeks of floundering around each other had resulted in just the reminder that she was better on her own. Maybe if she’d had more time, they could have at least tried to have some kind of sexual life.

Peter’s hand was still right there. She could feel its warmth, and when the limo went over a speed bump as they approached the airport, his finger touched the outside of her hand and he didn’t move away. Not immediately. This was stupid. She was a grown woman. She didn’t need to entertain this kind of a disaster in her life.

But Peter made her blood race in ways it hadn’t since Jake, and it was a hard feeling to ignore. She hated it. He was cocky and arrogant and he was gone half of the time and she’d learned her lesson when it came to men who just couldn’t be around. Her heart was tired of waiting for the phone to ring and she wasn’t subjecting Avery to that kind of heartbreak either. He was starting to ask about his father and it wasn’t like Peter was anything other than a fantasy.

Anyway. None of it mattered.

Corky was more his speed. She had to let this go.

***

Murphy was the last one out of the limo. Peter paused at the door, waiting for her to climb free, and held out his hand to stabilize her. To his surprise, she took it, and the jolt he felt as her fingers tightened in his made his toes curl. She smiled as she straightened up, and for just a minute, he lost himself in those indigo eyes of hers. Every time their eyes met, he was always struck by how beautiful she was. It was a distraction he hadn’t expected when he took the job at FYI.

Her hand lingered in his for just a second longer than necessary, and Peter found himself about to link their fingers when she stepped away and took her bag from the driver. A quick breath and look around confirmed no one had seen the moment, and so he followed his coworkers to the gate. The night was catching up with all of them. What the hell had that been? Linking their fingers? Holding her hand? Jeeze, he needed some sleep.

Corky and Jim were both reading, Miles making notes, Frank playing solitaire. Murphy was by the window, flipping absently through a magazine, and Peter sat back, pretending to sleep, really using it as an excuse to watch her.

He knew it was her who was rifling through the K section of his Rolodex. And after Mrs. Hirschfeld showed up the first time for piano lessons, Peter let her just keep coming back. She was a sweet old lady who reminded him of his grandmother. He also suspected Murphy was holding on to the different items that were missing from his office, along with his spare tire, and that she was the one who kept making his preferred mug disappear.

He also knew it was her who had left a fresh box of girl scout cookies on his desk every day since the gaffe, with a print out of a heat seeking missile taped to it this week - and that no one else had received any.

If she was trying to drive him crazy to make him go away, it wasn’t working. No one else was willing to play like this. They were all too in awe of his life on the road, of what they expected his world to be like. He knew Murphy’s history. Awestruck was the last thing she would ever be and if he’d hoped to make friends with Frank, the other man’s insecurities weren’t ever going to let that happen. He liked Miles, secretly wanted to be Jim, and Corky was cute - if obvious. Six weeks ago, he’d have been all over Corky. Cute. Perky. Easy to leave. But really, since his first day, his attention had only on the woman by the window, drawing devil horns on Republicans in the New Yorker.

He’d seen the photos of her out with Mitchell Baldwin, but since coming back from his latest trek to South America, he hadn’t seen evidence of them together. The Enquirer had run a story about her and Diane Sawyer that both intrigued and made him chuckle. The photo in her office of Jake Lowenstein made him wonder about the relationship, and rumor had it that there was no shortage of Kennedy cousins after her hand.

But rumors didn’t make a person. What he saw was a woman who came in late a couple of times a week so she could spend more time with her son. A woman who brought her kid in when she worked on the weekends, and whose nanny dropped him off when she would be working late. A woman who wouldn’t leave her desk until the copy, the research was perfect. He saw a woman who would emerge from her office after everyone else had left for the evening, her sleeves rolled up, her hair piled in a bun. She’d nod at him and pour tea and sometimes, sit down and keep working. Always in silence. He saw a woman who deserved every single Humboldt and Emmy she’d earned over the years, who participated in committees and gave lectures, and wore an evening gown as comfortably as she wore a pair of jeans. A woman who never seemed to struggle with her sobriety even though it had to be tougher than anything else she’d ever faced. They’d sit at lunch or dinner, everyone around them ordering a drink, and she’d sip her club soda with lime and Peter pretended not to notice how her eyes would shift to Jim’s scotch or Frank’s beer. She never complained. At least, not about that. Peter had stopped ordering a drink when she was with them for lunch or dinner.

But god, she was irritating. She taunted and pushed and badgered. Everyone was in her hot seat always. She didn’t let up, even when sometimes, she needed to. Although, when she stuck her foot in her mouth, she just kept on chewing. He admired that. He also admired how she could throw a punch and keep on working. And how she saw right through him. She was one of so few that they could all be counted on one hand, this first generation of women who had kicked down the doors of broadcast journalism. Before perky had become regulation. Women who had no need to change. Women who would be forever run second to the men they appeared on air with and who stood tall and carried the world on their shoulders. Some married, some not, all of them working twice as hard to get even half the respect, and all of them expected to have the perfect life at home with the perfect man.

Moments where her hand touched his or he helped her from a car or when their eyes met over dinner, he had to wonder if it was at all possible, if she would ever even entertain the idea, that a woman like her possibly want a guy like him?

***

This time, he was waiting when she showed up with the box of Girl Scout cookies. She’d had most of the ones she’d ordered sent to the Hot Meals at Home program, but a few were stacked in her office. Late night snacks for her, and treats for Avery when he was here. But she felt like Peter deserved a box every now and then.

He was there at his desk, working, and she stopped right inside the door, a blush creeping across her face. “I thought you’d left for Colombia already.”

“Nope. That got pushed back, actually. So I’m here for another week. I’ll take that box now,” he laughed, holding out his hand. Murphy contemplated making him work for it, but after the moment by the limo the other night, she wasn’t sure she could keep herself from doing something irreparably stupid. So, she dropped it on his desk.

“Courtesy of on air stupidity,” she chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

“So,” he cracked open the box of Thin Mints. “What’s the dumbest thing you ever did on air?”

Murphy raised an eyebrow, “You don’t have that kind of time, Hunt.”

He tossed her a cookie. “Try me.”

“Well,” she took a breath. “I lost it on air once with a four star general. And there was the time I made Mother Teresa cry.”

“I remember that one!” Peter grinned. “The interview was fantastic, by the way.”

“Tell that to my likability ratings,” Murphy bit into the cookie. “But I was also pretty drunk too. And there was that nine month stretch where I was an unwed mother and blowing up like a balloon every week while our viewers wondered about the end of Western Civilization.” She smirked at him. “What about you?”

“Well,” he bit into a cookie of his own. She sat across from him at the desk and grabbed another one. “There was the time I tried to be a hero during a flood in Buffalo and got sucked into a storm drain.”

Murphy burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “Well now we know where the hero compulsion comes from,” she teased, standing. Grabbing three more cookies she walked back to the door. “Next box, you have to come get yourself,” she taunted over her shoulder.

“Noted,” he teased right back.

Outside his office, she let out a breath. What the hell had that been? You have to come get the box yourself? What kind of stupidity was that? Jesus Christ, Brown. And to left him off with such a lame admission of his dumbest thing on air? Get it together. Retreating to the safety of her office, she sank into her chair and stared at the latest headline featuring a triumphant looking Jake Lowenstein standing next to a pile of rubble she was sure he’d helped to create.

Well, that was a way to bring her down to earth.

She stared at the image of her ex-husband, his arm around a woman he was clearly fucking, a woman who had to be 20, and contemplated opening an investigation into whatever rubble he was standing in front of just to get his ass back to the states so she could yell at him. Yup. Nothing like a photo of Jake to drag her right back into reality. What the hell had that conversation in Peter’s office been anyway? The dumbest thing she’d ever done on camera?

Taunted Peter Hunt about the word “girl.”

Really, she should have just kept her mouth shut.

***

Peter thanked his lucky stars that she didn’t notice him watch her walk out. It was getting harder and harder to hide how he couldn’t keep his eyes off those legs that went all the way to her neck. Days like today, when she was in a skirt and heels, it just about did him in. Whatever that perfume she preferred was, he needed a bottle of it for when the scent faded from his office.

Jesus, what was he doing?

Just last week, she’d somehow got the keys to his car and filled the back seat with leaves. As a kid, his mother would have said “oh, she just likes you” but she also did crap like that to Miles and he was pretty sure the two of them weren’t thinking about each other the way he kept thinking about Murphy. Namely, with those shapely legs over his shoulders while he made love to her with his mouth. His nights any more were filled with images of her running those long fingers through his hair while he kissed his way down her body … Nope. Stop.

Yeah, he really needed to stop letting his mind go there. This was insane. She was Murphy Brown. She was irritating, egotistical, demanded to be right all the time, and fucking hell, she was intoxicating. He was desperate for Frank’s secret because he was pretty sure the other man never thought about her this way. Anything to make it stop.

He bit into another cookie. She was just across the hall. He could go get another box. Just to taunt her. He could annoy her. He could …

Go be in her space.

This was so stupid. So unbelievably stupid. He had work to do. This wasn’t a place to make eyes at the pretty senior class president. Peter took a deep breath, shook his head, and forced himself to focus. There was a story meeting later, and he needed to find a way to get his head back on straight. He wanted to do this piece on local drug rings but he didn’t have enough to present. So he needed to work. Before Murphy stole the story right out from under him, which she was capable of doing.

But Murphy surprised him. Standing at the coffee island, her sleeves rolled up her glasses pushing her hair back, she looked triumphant. No, she was gloating.

“I think we should do a follow up on this,” she tossed the newspaper onto the table. “Jake Lowenstien’s group blew up a compound in Cuba and he’s being celebrated but it’s caused a lot of fallout and people were hurt.”

Peter wasn’t immune to the sudden rise in tension around the table. He watched Miles swallow and then pick up the paper. “It’s an interesting idea, but if we do it, you can’t be the one on the story, Murphy. You know that.” He and Murphy stared at each other. “We probably should assign it to Frank. And his story on the oil cartels is a little more important,” Miles tried again. Murphy looked ready to blow a gasket.

The tension stretched. Now Peter knew he was missing something. No one filled him in.

“My story isn’t ready for next week. I can put this one together in my sleep, Miles.” Murphy’s voice had a low, level tone that Peter knew meant she was about to kill someone. His eyes darted to the hallway that led to his office. Could he make it in time?

Peter watched Jim look at his notes, Frank suddenly need coffee, and Corky well, she was just making eyes at him. What the hell was Murphy’s connection to Jake Lowenstein?

“I’ll do it,” he piped up, not quite sure why.

They all stared at him.

“I’ll do it. I was going to pitch something on drug rings but let’s be real, there’s always time for drugs. This is timely, and I like Cuba. The stories are always more involved than they seem on the surface. Also, I’ve got a relationship with Lowenstein. We go back into Iraq a few years ago and we trust each other. So, I’ll do it.”

Silence again.

“I could tie Castro into this,” Murphy argued. But it wasn’t a hard argument.

“It’s Peter’s story, Murphy. Let’s see about getting that Judge Wienholtz interview ready for Wednesday. Peter, check in with Murphy about her information on this later, okay?”

Peter expected Murphy to do what she always did when she was overruled - to storm off into her office until she came up with a perfect revenge. Instead, she just stood there. Her not fighting was the strangest thing to absorb about all of this. Clearly, it was personal with Lowenstein. But what was he getting in to?

Frank’s oil story went forward. Corky’s piece on disappearing Americana had her on a plane that night. Jim’s commentary on the impact of urban flight on poorer populations sounded interesting - if a bit centrist. Murphy accepted her Judge Wienholtz story without complaint. Peter prepared for him to kill her as he followed her back to her office.

“Here,” she handed him a stack of research. “All yours. I’d give you my notes on Lowenstein, but you already know him, so you don’t need my insights.”

“Can I ask what your past is with him?” He’d seen the photo in here. They knew each other somehow.

Murphy stared at him, contemplating. After a long moment, she shook her head. “No, Petey. You’ve got a relationship with him. I’m not going to taint that. It’s probably good you’ve got the story anyway.”

“Murphy …”

“Peter. Literally nothing I would tell you about Jake would help with this story. So go on. Shoo. Go do my story. And do it better than I would or I’ll key your car.”

“You sure?” He asked.

“Yes,” Murphy retorted.

He stared at her, but didn’t fight. There was something he was missing, but he also trusted Murphy’s reporter’s instinct. She wouldn’t say that something didn’t matter when it did. So. He was off to get into Cuba.

***

Murphy waited until Peter walked out of her office before sinking down. What the hell had she been thinking? Of course Peter was a better fit for this story than she was. God. What, she’d show up, shove the cute little blonde groupie aside and instead of reporting on the sabotage, she’d demand he come back to DC and spend some time with his son? Jesus Christ. If she was this hard up for some action, she could call Ben and see if he was seeing anyone and if he wasn’t, let him take her dancing. Not like he’d been really receptive since Avery came along. Not like Jerry was any better. God, she sure knew how to pick em.

Her eyes fell on a bright blue folder and she grabbed it and jumped up, racing over into Peter’s office. “Hey, Petey,” she caught her breath, holding out the pages. “Look, this is the CPJ’s current research on what’s going on down there with journalists. You should have it before you get on the plane.”

He blinked and took the folder from her. “Wow, I … how did you get this?” He stared down at the pages. “This isn’t due for release.”

“I’m a founding member and still serve on the board,” she said, sucking her teeth a bit. “We don’t advertise our involvement. But Cuba is on our radar screen right now. I … don’t take it with you, but you’re welcome to read it and know who to avoid.”

“Murphy, thank you.” He looked at her and she found herself blushing under his gaze, and not just because of how his eyes traveled from hers, down around the slope of her sweater, to her legs, and back up again. She wanted to be upset, but far from leering, he was observing her, and she was still, quite frankly, observing him.

A part of her wanted to close his door and slam the blinds shut. She hadn’t worn hose today. She wanted him to push her back onto his desk and move her legs apart and show her exactly what he was made of. She wanted to unbutton those jeans and …

“Be careful,” she interrupted her train of thought, and watched him jump out of his own. Were they thinking the same thing? This was bad. It was very bad. Her hand gripped the open door, threatening to close it, threatening to indulge the fantasy. Would he laugh? He’d probably laugh. She shook her head. “Cuba’s a hot spot right now.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“How did you get … I mean, these guys do good work and not a lot of people …”

“What? Think of me as doing good for the betterment of mankind?” Murphy chuckled. Peter shrugged. “I care about two things in this world, Peter. My son, and my fellow journalists. I listen to the stories you tell, I know how you cover up your feelings under the macho crap. I know because I do it too. You think I’m bragging when I come home from some horrible coup and I complain about the mercenaries who want to smell my hair?” She pointed at the folder. “I want to know the next generation of women, ones like Corky, they don’t have to go through what I did. I want to know that when we go to jail here, in this country, for our rights to protect sources, that we are protected. So yes, I’m on the committee.”

“I’d love to hear the story someday,” he said. “I mean it.”

She smiled, and the fantasy surged again, this time far more domestic, them sitting on her couch, talking about their histories. She needed to get out of here. “Someday, maybe I’ll tell it to you.” With a shrug, she stepped back. “Good luck over there, Peter. I can’t wait to see the story.”

“Thanks, Murphy.”

Murphy turned on her heel and fled before she did something really stupid. She needed to get his picture up on her dart board. And also do something horrible to his car. That would set her nerves aside.

***

His hand was sweating. Hell, he was sweating. The reporters who had started the CPJ were legends, and yet only a few were known. He’d never have guessed in a million years that Murphy had been one of the ones in the trenches, digging up files and working to protect reporters overseas. Still, it wasn’t surprising.

A part of him wondered if she could ever increase her caring to three things, and add him to the list.

God.

She’d stood there, her hand on his door, and he’d wanted to just pull her against him, push the door shut, and move her to his desk. He wanted those legs wrapped around him, wanted to slide his hands up her bare thighs and pull down what he imagined were some of the sexiest panties known to man. Had she been thinking the same thing? Had she been imagining what it would mean if they finally stopped taunting and did something else?

No. She’d shown up to warn him about violence against journalists.

Peter groaned and willed his hardon to chill. Had she noticed?

Judy, his ever efficient but far too perky secretary poked her head in the door. “Mr. Hunt? I’ve got travel on the line for your trip to Cuba? Do you have preferences for when you want to leave?”

He swallowed and forced himself to focus. He needed to call Linda or Kelly or someone and just see if they’d be willing to get pizza and fuck so he could get this out of his system. Murphy Brown was out of his league, and even if she wasn’t, she only cared about him as a journalist. Her son and journalists. That was what mattered to her.

“Um, Saturday if possible. With a return on Tuesday.”

“Perfect. I’ll get it set up!” She perked her way back to her desk. Peter sank into his chair and opened the blue folder.

Stats on injuries in Cuba.

She had no reason to give this to him. It didn’t pertain to the story.

Her son and protecting journalists. Did anyone else know about her work with CPJ? Or did they brush off her stats about violence in those countries as her just showing off? Like he had until this moment. How many times had she gone overseas on an assignment that just “didn’t work out” but she hadn’t been angry about it? How many journalists had she helped to save?

He shivered.

She’d given this to him personally. He was going to pay attention.


End file.
